Grease and Gunsmoke
by TaterBug422
Summary: A can of hair grease and a loaded assault rifle. Yeah, that's what love is.
1. Barber Shop

**Author's note : **Okay, so this is my first Fallout story. Infact, it's my first story on here EVER. As it should already be implied, I'll still say it. I don't own any of the characters or concepts (Well, you know what I mean). All of that belongs to Bethesda, blah blah blah.

I'm open to any suggestions to make this better. I really hate the ending, so if anyone has any suggestions on that, it'd be wonderful. I'm also in the market for a Beta reader if anybody wants the position!

There will probably be a bunch more little onseshots like this if the reviewers want more. A girl's gotta' get results. Now, onto the first chapter!

* * *

She'd asked him to cut her hair.

And so, being the amazing barber – not hairdresser – that he was, Butch DeLoria instantaneously agreed to give her one. It was only halfway through washing her hair did he realize he wasn't getting paid for doing this.

He'd started out by pulling one of the few good quality chairs left in the Capital Wastelands from the corner of the living room and scooting it next to her sink. Leaning it back to balance against the dirty porcelain lip, he handed her a towel and instructed her to lie back in the chair. If he was going to do this, he would do it right. She wrapped the towel around her neck and did as he told, but not without protest.

"I still don't see why you have to wet my hair for this; you're just going to chop it all off anyways."

Butch had taken his jacket off prior to setting up, as well as shucked-off the top half of his vault suit and tied it messily around his lean waist. The muscles beneath his white undershirt rippled as he sauntered towards her once more, two bottles of water he'd heated with the Bunsen burner in her chemistry set held in each hand. "Those other guys you've been to might have just half-assed it, but girl, that ain't me. I'm gonna' barber the hell outta' that hair."

To be honest, he actually liked her hair as it was, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone. Hell, he'd had a hard enough time admitting it to himself as it was. The way she threw it up into a messy bun every morning was kind of cute; a few of the corn silk strands would always manage to fall against her sun-bronzed neck. He had to resist the urge to play with them on several occasions until he remembered himself and quickly snuffed-out the urge. Butch supposed it might have had something to do with her being the only girl he actually knew outside of the vault, but he was open to other suggestions.

"And besides, girls' hair is different. You gotta' wash it before you can work with it."

"Did they teach you that in the vault?"

He paused, recalling the incident, "No."

"Then how do you know?"

"Let's just say that Susie refuses to be in the same room with me if I got a pair of scissors in my hands."

Taking the cap off one bottle he poured the contents over her hair before setting the empty container on a nearby shelf, making sure to not waste any of the precious liquid by placing the old rubber stopper in the drain whole. He didn't have any shampoo. Instead he was forced to use an unopened bar of lye soap he had found in the men's bathroom on the other side of town.

Piping up while he lathered his hands, the almighty Lone Wanderer, as some called her, asked, raising her damp head slightly, "Where'd you get that?"

"Men's room."

"Eww, that's disgusting. Do you even know how filthy that thing could be?"

Rolling his eyes, Butch dipped his fingers into her hair and began scrubbing away at the unseen grime. "Oh shuttup. It's a new one so don't worry. Besides, it's not like your hair could get any dirtier than it already was." The corner of his lip quirked slightly when she reached up and smacked his arm in mock anger.

"Watch it, Butch; a radroach might pop out of there and bite you."

His grin widened at that as he continued to wash her hair until the water in the sink became a light brown, flecks of sand and grit floating on the surface. She'd quieted down as his calloused fingers deftly massaged into her scalp and he glanced down to see her eyes closed and mouth set in a content little smile. He full out beamed. Then, finished with washing, he pulled the stopper up, waiting for the sink to drain before reaching for the other water bottle. Unscrewing the cap, he repeated the process, pouring the warm water over her hair, rinsing out the excess soap and dirt. He gathered her hair into his hands and gently twisted it, wringing out the remaining water. For fun he gave the dampened locks a small tug before promptly being smacked once more.

He ushered her out of her seat and pulled the chair into the middle of the living area where he'd made room to work. An unpleasant screeching briefly filled the air as its legs scraped mercilessly against the patchwork metal floor. Towel still snugly wrapped around her shoulders, she sat in the chair once more before asking, "Wait, don't you need scissors? I've got some in the lockers by the door."

Oh ye of little faith. "Now honestly, do you think I'd be stupid enough to forget the most important tool? C'mon, you should know me better than that by now." Strolling over to the bookshelf by her stairs where he'd laid his jacket, he reached into one of the inner pockets, pulling out a tiny cloth wrapped bundle. He set it down and unfolded the package to reveal several pairs of identical, finely sharpened, cutting scissors. Pretending to actually think on which pair he was going to pick, he finally selected one from the pile and made his way back to the center of the room.

Say what she might, Butch knew the girl thought he was funny.

Circling around to her back once more, he procured a fine-toothed comb from his suit's waist pocket and swiftly raked through her wet tresses, removing any tangles. "So, whaddaya' want me to do to you?" He felt more than saw the blush that crept onto her dusty cheeks.

"Just…just make it short and get it out of my eyes."

"Alright. Hold still." He decided to get the biggest piece out of the way first. Taking her hair into one hand, he gathered it to the back of her head and quickly sheared through the long strands. Loose tresses fell through his hand like water to the floor.

"Are you done?"

He scoffed indignantly. "You kiddin? I'm just gettin' started. Now pipe down so I can concentrate."

She opened her mouth as if to say more, but two hardy snips at the vacant space next to her head later and she obediently silenced herself.

He set to work on trimming the back of her head first. Snip after snip, more of the pale hair fell gracefully to the floor. He stopped when the ends touched just barely touched the base of her neck before turning his attention to the sides of her head. As he was cutting, Butch took the chance to study his number one girl more closely.

Time outside Vault 101 had changed her. He'd only just begun to tan from being out in the unforgiving sun, whereas she had already turned a deep rust color to match the walls of her house. Her bottle green eyes were that much brighter because of it. That was another thing he liked about her. He let his own pair of baby blues roam over the rest of her face. Her nose would have been small and perfectly button-like except for one thing: a minuscule bump at the top of the bridge. Not terribly noticeable, but obvious enough to let others know she'd had it broken a time or two.

Most likely from that time he'd duked her at her 10th birthday party. God he'd been such an ass back then. Still was, to some extent.

When his gaze landed on her lips he hesitated mid-cut, entertaining the outlandish and out-of-the-blue thought of what it would be like if he kissed her.

Sure, he had macked on tons of girls. Well, maybe not tons; by the time he'd reached the age where he considered them useful for more than insulting, the teenage female – and general – population had dwindled considerably over the years. He still had his fair share of experience of course. Butch had frequently "practiced" frequently on Christine Kendall back in his Tunnel Snake days. But, the thought of kissing the girl sitting in front of him did weird things to his stomach. Hell, when he thought about it, this whole situation should have had his intestines tied in a knot from its overall unlikelihood. Why was he doing this for her again? Regardless, he was still a barber, a darn good one at that, and he always finished a job.

A few strands later and he was finished. Unwrapping the cloth from around her shoulders and briefly shaking out any cut hairs, he threw it over the girl's head before roughly toweling it dry. She batted his hands away while chuckling slightly, finishing the job herself.

"So now are you done?" She asked in mock annoyance.

"Yeah, I'm through with you. Go take a look." He busied himself with combing his own hair, patting down any stray piece back into its grease-sculpted shape.

Butch watched as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom where the only mirror in the house resided on her desk. That, and she probably wanted to let the mutt out of her room; he'd been locked up in there to be kept out of the way.

He smirked, already knowing she would like the results. Her hair had gone from long and tangled to short and…unsettled would probably be the right term. Not to mention, clean. And he'd gotten it out of her eyes just like she'd asked too.

"Wow." She called down from the second floor, the dog joining in with a mutual yip. "Butch, this is great, Thank you. I love it."

He couldn't help himself.

"Good. Now come down here so I can finish up wit' that bush you got growin' on your face."

He continued to laugh even after she had chucked the towel down onto his head, ruining his perfect coif.


	2. Sick Leave Part 1

**Author's Note: So I've decided that I no longer wish to own Fallout, and I've given all of the rights over to Bethesda. **

**I've gone back and (FINALLY) corrected all of the mistakes that I could find in this chapter. I mean, good Lord, leaving my side notes left in the text? IN BOLD? I just about shot myself from the embarassment. But there should be no more of those nasty little hiccups....hopefully. If there are, please people for the love of God, tell me. (In the nice little form of a review, if you don't mind!)**

* * *

Making her way down the silent corridor to Brotch's classroom was proving more and more difficult. The fluorescent lights above her head were far too bright so she was opting to keep her eyes on her feet as she stumbled along. Leaning against the wall for support, Eve forced a deep breath from her lungs; it was getting harder to breathe properly.

And the sad part was, besides feeling like someone had closed one of the automatic door panels on her a few hundred times, she couldn't go back home; there was a test today. She'd told her dad she was sick. He hadn't believed her of course, and she couldn't really blame him. She had played the sick-card on more than one occasion. Just so happened that this time it was the real deal.

At the age of seven, Eve had come to the conclusion that she hated schoolwork to the highest degree, and had decided that she would avoid it all possible to do so was the question she posed to herself. Her dad was a doctor, he would catch her in seconds.

When she pushed herself off the wall, the poor girl actually began to sway in-place, her vision having gone blurry for a second. There was no use going back, so the obvious thing to do was keep moving forward. Her stomach did a summersault before pushing its way past her lungs and into her throat.

That wasn't good.

Eve was almost to the classroom when she spotted the key to her salvation. It was ethereal in its simplicity. Its gleaming stainless steel casing acting as a pseudo consecrated shield; a mirror like basin reflecting in it the fierce, almost holy, intermittent light of the overheads. The mechanical hum from beneath the monolith's frame transformed into a chorale of metallic angels.

In her mind, nothing could have been more beautiful.

She practically dove for the water fountain as if trying to avoid a bullet, pressing the button on the side to allow cool, pure, though slightly pipe-tasting, water to rush from the spigot to her waiting mouth. She greedily drank in four entire mouthfuls before stopping to breathe. God that felt so much better.

She leaned heavily against the fountain, pushing her pale bangs back with one hand and allowing her forehead to rest on its cold metal surface.

"I don't mean to interrupt your heartwarming reunion with the water fountain, Miss Sheridan, but can I be expecting your presence in my class anytime soon? I'd like to get this test over with as fast and as painless as possible."

Only rotating her head slightly so that it stayed in contact with the fountain's lip, because really, it just felt too good to move yet, Eve gazed up at her teacher with tired eyes. Leaning casually in the doorway with arms folded across his chest, the man wore an annoyed, albeit somewhat amused, expression upon his dark face.

"Sorry, Mr. Brotch. My friend and I here have a lot of catching up to do."

Simply turning to stroll back into the classroom, he advised her to wrap things up quickly so the class could begin. If he'd heard the lack of enthusiasm in her statement he chose to ignore it, for now at least.

Eve's stomach had finally settled back into its proper place. She still felt like crap but that could be dealt with later. She made her way to the front of the room and took her seat. Freddie Gomez sat behind, leaning forward to whisper at her back.

"Hey, Eve?" She quirked her head to the side to show she was listening. "You think you could give me some help on the test? Y'know, incase I need it?"

Poor Freddie, she thought. He was a real sweet guy, if he wasn't hanging around with Butch and that stupid gang of his. It wasn't really even a gang; just a bunch of brats going around shouting "Tunnel Snakes Rule!" Yeah, real tough guys with fake leather jackets they'd actually sweet-talked Grandma Taylor into making for them. She didn't even see how that was possible. Freddie was the only one worth having a civil conversation with in her opinion. Now if only he could get his grades up.

"Sure Freddie. But you gotta start studying more." She managed.

A sigh escaped from the desk behind her. "Thanks. I know, and I _do _study, but I just don't get any of it. I keep getting headaches." He would have said more if Brotch hadn't announced the beginning of the test then, passing out each slip of paper along the rows.

Eve retrieved her pencil from the inside of her desk and waited for her paper. Her head was starting to feel fuzzy again, her stomach rising. When the test appeared in front of her she could barely focus enough to write her own name. Fumbling through the first few questions, the girl actually lost the grip on her pencil, watching it roll from her desk and onto the metal floor below. Not even bothering to pick it up, she laid her head down upon the cool surface of her desk and closed her eyes. Her temples were pounding and she was weak to the point of trembling visibly all over. So hot. Everything was so hot.

"Psst. What's the answer to number one?"

She didn't respond. Instead focusing on breathing slow and deep. A few minutes later a large hand placed itself lightly on her elbow. A muffled and hazy voice that sounded like Brotch spoke quietly next to her ear. Eve couldn't figure out what he'd asked. The hand on her elbow was moved to her scorching forehead. She heard something about her dad and Freddie before she was helped out of her chair and slowly shuffled out of the room.

"Bet she's just faking so she doesn't have to take the test." That nasally whine had to be Butch's. Swiveling her head this way and that, Eve tried to find where his voice was coming from before she finally locked onto him. An vicious, imp-like smiledanced across his face and reflected in his twinkling blue 'd recently started putting grease in his hair and combing it back; a big change from the curly mass it had been before. His jacket, still stiff and far too large on him, was hung haphazardly on the back of his seat, the sleeves just barely reaching the floor. She would have actually considered him to be pretty cool...if only he weren't such a jerk.

"M'not faking…feel like crud."

"Yeah, and you look like it too."

What had she ever done to deserve this?

She tried to say more but her knees chose that moment to give out on her. An arm came around her waist, hauling her somewhat to her feet. She leaned against the person, probably Freddie, as they supported most of her weight. Sweat was beading along her brow,and her hand kept methodically clenching into the material of Freddie's jumpsuit. She knew her face had gone pale.

Her father had taught her, at her request, the processes of vomiting when she was younger; unlike other seven year old girls in the Vault who were playing 'House', she'd found human mechanics far more fascinating. The fascination faded rather quickly.

A bout of wheezy retching ensued as she felt a pressure in her stomach rising. Eve's body abruptly went rigid, her arms and legs locking stiff as if she'd taken hold of a bare electric wire. She briefly tasted an acidic parody of the powdered eggs and orange juice she'd consumed not two hours before as they passed quickly up her throat and out of her opened mouth. There was a brief moment as she was expelling every last scrap of that morning's breakfast, where Eve wondered what this must look like from the point of view of the poor individual who had been caught in her line of vision.

"Hwurgh!"

Freddie quickly escorted her out of the room after that, trying his hardest not to laugh. In her partially conscious state Eve managed a chuckle too as she heard Brotch instruct a screaming Butch DeLoria to go to the bathroom and clean himself up.

They were even now.


	3. Sick Leave Part 2

**Author's Note:** Okay, so first off, HAI GUYS!. It's been oh, Idunno', maybe almost two months since my last update? Yeah, sorry if anyone was holding their breaths, I think I might be charged with mass murder. Then again maybe not.

Uhm, well, how can I put this? After fighting with this chapter for so long, and just wanting to get it done, I think I just kinda' slapped some words down and called it finished. I honestly COULD NOT write on this anymore. I really want to improve it though, so any suggestions - seriously any - would really be appreciated. Oh, By the by, if anyone's noticed, I'm startin' to go back to my previous chapters and redo them, y'know try and make them a little more readable. So anymore suggestinos on those would be appreciated. And as always, non of these characters belong to me. It's all Bethesda baby.

**OH OH OH:** I almost stinkin' forgot. Butch, in here, is WAY OOC. Not even kiddin', so just a heads up on that. Comments would be the nicest late birthday present for me by the way!

* * *

"Sweetheart, wake up now." The gentle shake her shoulder was given roused her from a fitful slumber. Cracking her eyes, she immediately closed them once more while throwing an arm over her face to shield them from the bright lights.

Another shake, this time more insistent. "Come on Evelyn."

Rolling onto her stomach, she burrowed her head into the warm pillow, simultaneously snuggling deeper between her scratchy but bearable sheets. Until it was viciously ripped away from her that is. Cold air assaulted her tiny frame causing a violent shiver to course through her. This was certainly not the most pleasant of ways to start her morning.

Flopping onto her back once more, Eve finally forced her eyes to remain open and gaze tiredly up at the silhouetted form of her father. Blinking repeatedly to further adjust her vision, she was able to recognize the stern frown upon his face threatening to split into a smile.

"G'morning Dad." she mumbled, voice thick and hoarse from sleep.

He did smile then, patting her disheveled little head. Telling her to get dressed over his shoulder, James promptly left the room; they only had a little time for breakfast before they left.

Eve rolled into a sitting position and allowed her feet to dangle off the edge of the bed. The quick movement made her a little dizzy. It was nothing compared to three days ago, but still. She stood and stretched, listening to her bones pop and gave a content little moan as her stiff muscles slowly but surely relaxed. What would she wear today? Searching through her drawers yielded a multitude of results. There was a blue jumpsuit, a blue jumpsuit, and – oh a blue jumpsuit, her favorite!

At the breakfast table she attempted to finish her plate of freshly sliced fruit. The apples went down easy enough, but she struggled with her pears. Signaling that she was finished, Eve edged the plate away from her before closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the metal dining table. Turning her head to the side, she opened them once more to watch her father going about his morning routine.

James lounged off to the side upon their couch, quietly sipping from his steaming coffee mug in one hand while reading over a small diagnostics chart in the other. He had taught her to read them, she remembered. The jumbled abbreviations and intricate terminology, written in her father's own chicken scratch, that filled the pages had roused her curiosity as a small child while learning to read. When James had found her trying to sound out the statistics for Ms. Beatrice's most recent visit, he had insisted upon teaching her the proper way to interpret them. Eve had always been a rather quick learner and the experience for her was interesting to say the least. She'd always found it especially fascinating to read Mrs. Mack's charts; something was always wrong with the woman.

"_Dad?"_

"_Yes, honey?"_

"_What does PMS stand for?"_

"…"

Needless to say, six years later, she'd found out _exactly _what it was and had not liked it one bit.

*** 0 ***

Not long after, the two Sheridans strolled side by side in the direction of the medical office, chatting idly about the patients that were to be expected – and unexpected – that day. Once there, Eve made her way to the far corner of the office, behind the privacy screens James had set up for her, where a small cot had been placed in the dark corner. She sat on the edge of the cot, waiting as her father rummaged through one of the utility carts before meandering over to her with a glass thermometer held in his hands as well as other assorted tools. Popping the thermometer into her mouth he began checking her over, searching for any changes in her condition.

"Well, I've got good news and bad news, Ms. Sheridan. Which would you like to hear first?"

She pretended to think a moment. "Well doctor, how about the good news?"

"Alright." He reached down beside him, pulling a container of medicine from the pile of supplies he had set on the floor. "The good news is you should be pretty much well by tomorrow." He opened the bottle, tumbling out two small white capsules and silently instructing her to take them.

"And the bad news?" She sounded suspicious as she tossed the pills to the back of her throat and swallowed quickly before they made contact with her taste buds.

"You'll have to go back to class."

"Oh Dad, please don't." she threw her hands before her in pleading, "can't I just stay out of class for one more day? Tomorrow's Friday. Please?"

"No, you need to go to class so you don't fall too far behind. Which reminds me, I'll be right back with you're school work." He stood, smoothed down the legs of his pants and gave his daughter one last glance before exiting the room.

Eve laid back on the cot, folding her arms behind her head, and stared at the ceiling.

She had been suffering almost endlessly for the past week. And even between the vomiting, fevers, and headaches, she had for some cruel reason been forced into completing her school assignments. James was always going on about how a good education was important for her to make it in the vault.

Seriously though, she lived in the Vault, when would she _ever_ have to remember the year that the Declaration of Independence was signed? Utterly useless.

But, despite her complaints she still got the work done. Besides she enjoyed chatting with Freddie and Amata during lunch when either one of them came to pick up her papers. Her best friend would check over her answers, although both girls knew they were correct. Gomez would crack jokes and help take her mind off of how many knots her stomach was tying itself into at that particular moment.

The hiss of an automatic door signaled her father's return. Sitting up once more to watch as he came into view, Eve gave him a curious look. He wasn't carrying any papers.

"Well you're in luck, sweetheart. Mr. Brotch has yet to finish writing your notes for the day. So, you'll just have to wait until after lunch to start on that homework you love so much."

"Oh, _darn_." She swung her arm in front of her, snapping her fingers in an exaggerated manner.

Her father smiled gently at her while bending over to drop a light kiss upon her forehead. "By the way, you're having a test tomorrow."

She gaped at his retreating back indignantly as he made his way to his office door. That was so unfair.

*** 0 ***

In her opinion, she believed that being able to wake up on one's own volition was quite possibly the best way to go about the task. So it goes almost without saying that when Eve was viciously yanked from her cot to land face-first on the hard medical room floor, she was not the happiest of people.

"Ow."

Groaning in pain and still groggy from sleep, she pushed herself off the floor and into a sitting position while catching a pair of dark boots at the edges of her vision. Lifting her gaze further northward provided her with a view of the befreckled – and altogether unfriendly looking – scrunched up face of one Butch DeLoria.

"Here." He said simply, tossing papers at her only to have them land scattered around her on the ground. She picked them up, sorting and rifling silently through the packets. History was always first, then Math, then English. She made it a point to try and ignore DeLoria as he stood there, obviously waiting to be acknowledged. Every few seconds though, between reading the side notes her teacher had messily penned in the margins of the assignment sheets, she would allow a flickering glance in the greaser's direction.

What the heck was he doing here anyway? She thought it would have been Amata or Freddie like usual. At least she got along with them. But Butch? Brotch might as well have sent Christine to deliver her work.

He cleared his throat impatiently, breaking through the general quiet that permeated the room.

"What do you want Butch?"

"You know." He was trying to look tough by crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. And failing horribly, mostly due to how much the jacket he wore dwarfed his scrawny frame.

"No, I really don't."

"You threw up on me on purpose you little nosebleed."

Really, was that all he could come up with?

Allowing sarcasm to dip from every syllable, she countered stalwartly. "Yes, that's exactly right. I got myself sick, waited for Brotch to notice and send me out of class, timed my regurgitation reflex just right, and purposely aimed it towards you." Eve sneered up at him through her pale bangs, pulling off a nasty little smirk that would have made even Wally Mack proud. "You caught me."

"Tch'. You know what I meant." He disappeared onto the other side of the privacy screen, only to reappear dragging a chair noisily behind him. Pushing it next to her cot, he quickly straddled the chair backwards, watching her intently on the ground. It was kind of creepy.

Picking herself off the floor, she sat on the cot behind her and leaned against the back wall, setting the papers aside for later. "Why did Brotch send _you_?"

"He didn't. Not really. I was messin' with him, so he sent me outta' class, y'know, to get away from him. Bringing your papers to you was just a bonus."

"He doesn't care if you don't come back?"

"Oh, well sure he cares; he just don't want me to." Butch shifted in his seat, finally opting to change the subject by asking his own question. "So, how ya' been?"

Bottle green eyes flashed in astonishment. That had taken Eve by complete surprise. She was virtually floored, really. Since when did the Big Bad Tunnel Snake decide to stoop so low as to hold a conversation with her? She was used to bratty, smart mouthed Butch, not this nonchalant here's-your-homework-by-the-way-how's-it-going Butch. It was like being scolded by the Overseer. You didn't know what to say when you were spoken to because, more than likely, whatever it was wasn't your fault, and your first instinct is to kick the man in the shins – if only to slow him down for a bit – as you ran in the opposite direction.

But, as long as he was inclined to hold a somewhat civil conversation, Eve supposed she could try to bite back any snide comments that might ruffle his feathers. For now at least.

"Well, aside from the whole vomiting myself inside out and burning up hotter than the reactor, I guess I've been okay; I get to sleep as much as I want when I'm not doing homework." She chose not to add in the exception of waking up via Rude Rockabilly Style. "How about you? Anything interesting going on?"

She stifled a giggle as Butch visibly relaxed at that point, his body sagging down a little further and head tilting slightly to lie atop his folded arms on the back of the chair. He started talking, easing the both of them into a casual conversation about nothing in particular. It was the first time Eve could remember actually being at ease around him. It was kind of nice. But there was still that burning question in the back of her mind: Why was he doing this? Keeping her company, talking to her about the little day to day things. It boiled under the surface, rising to the top of her conscious 'til she couldn't keep it in.

"Why exactly are you talking to me anyways?"

He stopped, focusing on her for a mere moment before bowing his head to stare at the floor.

"Well," he started hesitantly, "it's like this. Back when my Pops was still alive, he couldn't stay home to take care of me when I was sick. Mom would take off from work, but she never really did anything, y'know?" He paused to clear his throat, trying to prevent his voice from cracking on every other word, before continuing. Damn puberty. "But, when he got home, if I wasn't tired or nothin', he would come in, sit by my bed and talk to me for hours."

Eve noticed, he was avoiding eye contact with her. Albeit not directly, but the way he would take several glances at the floor before looking at her was obvious enough. Sitting up from the chair's back rest, Butch stuffed both hands into his jacket pockets in a nervous gesture while keeping his face down. If she looked hard enough, she could just barely detect two rosy patches spreading across his lightly freckled cheeks.

"I just thought, y'know, seein' as how you're the only one who's been sick all week, you might want someone to talk to."

She blinked once. Twice.

What was she supposed to say to that?

"…Um, thanks. I should be better by tomorrow though; Dad said I'll be back in class."

"Oh."

DeLoria's face was doing the perfect impression of a cherry by the time her father had come out of his office to check on her once more. A shadow of suspicion passed over his face as he narrowed his eyes at the boy sitting close to his daughter, but it quickly faded as he asked Eve how she was feeling.

"Much better now." She said, shifting her gaze once more to Butch and grinning.

Nodding his head offhandedly, James turned his attention on the thirteen year old boy. Feeling the holes that were being burned into the back of his jumpsuit, the young boy abruptly stood, intimidated by the way the Vault's doctor silently glared at him.

"Mister DeLoria."

"Yea-Yessir." There was just something about a man who, if given the chance, could hold your very life in his hands that commanded respect.

"Your teacher, Mr. Brotch, just paged me. He said that if I saw you, you were to go back to class." Clearing his throat, James raised his chin while speaking to Butch in a purely business like manner. "I've seen you, so now I think you should be on your way."

And that was that.

It was hard to describe how he left the office, but Eve finally settled on 'scurried'. Having enough mind to, the boy returned his chair to its proper place before bee-lining for the door. She stopped him with his name.

"Butch."

Pale blue eyes turned to meet hers once more, anxious to leave but curious to hear her out at least. He'd shoved his hands back into his pockets, the outlines of his fingers twirled and twitched within the leather confines.

"I'll see you in class tomorrow."

The smallest of smiles graced his cheeks before he remembered that Dr. Sheridan was still in the room with them, and particularly watching him like a hungry radroach would a scrawny, vulnerable rat. So, pulling one hand out just long enough to produce a wave of goodbye, Butch DeLoria was out the door and down the hall before she could bat an eyelash.

"What did the two of you talk about sweetie?" Eve's attention was called back at the steady voice of her father. He had gone to checking over every piece of equipment throughout the room, picking up a scalpel here, a syringe there, seemingly inspecting them for flaws. But with the amount of tilt to his head, Eve knew he was ready to hang on her every word and either silently condemn or commend the departed Butch's behavior.

Flopping back on her cot once more, she folded her arms behind her head, closed her eyes, and gave a contented sigh.

"Oh, nothing."


End file.
